the hearts of small animals pink leaking pink, soft tissue; hovering organs hung out of a green clothesline. i used to see bleeding hearts flowers as proof of god, wondering how nature could know that, despite all evidence, humans believe hearts look like paper cut-outs. there used to be a bush outside the old church where we had girl scouts & each april afternoon on the walk there i would stop & fill all my pockets with the flower's hearts when no one was looking. i knew they must be the hearts of small creatures: butterflies, toads, or maybe even a rabbit-- i could see them emerging from the bundle of trees at the back of the graveyard at dusk to pull their flower-heart out of their mouths & hang it there as a fair well similar to the graves they spent their lives weaving between. closest to the church were the oldest graves some of the stones illegible names & dates smoothed away by the rain. i planted the hearts in the dirt by those worn stones, pretending the animals could share the plots with these humans. under the dirt they might trade stories about what smells they miss most on earth-- the small animal might try to help the human bones remember their names-- guessing all through the night all the wild their flower heart rebuilding their body again. i used to hope i'd by buried in that cemetery someday in a plot with all my family. sitting between the stones with my pocket full of the hearts of small creatures i would grin thinking how one day a toad might visit me & try to remind me what i was called.
Uncategorized
07/16
in a costume closet full of dresses i picked the white one: layers of frill doilies kissing each other the gills of a communion wafer filtering out dust collar like a dinner place-mat i hung forks from my ears & bit a knife in my mouth. i was young high school didn't know better. no one told me. the fins of a cloud shark steam turned fabric cauliflower sliced impossibly thin. i walked around all that year pretending my face was a slab of meat loaf bread crumbs mushed under skin & ketchup in veins-- this kind of dress was made for a play no one remembers this kind of dress follows you for years after you touch it. talks to you in lists of small pure objects: cork, thimble, glue, pillow case even now a week from my 23rd birthday i see the dress from time to time, folding itself carefully beneath a layer of shirts in my drawer or standing tall from a hanger in the closet it just wants to be touched but it's contagious i have to put it on go all the way in-- escape into that hallway of luster-- pretend my body is food swaddled in tissue paper: angel food cake white chiffon meringue peaks. i walk around the house at night like this where no one else can see a boy in a white dress asking to be eaten. the bugs come out & i tell them to be gentle-- to take what they must just don't let me watch. i put my hand over my eyes. last night i told all my friends that one morning they'll wake up & find me completely devoured.
07/15
room with no windows jay's mom said she once stayed in a hotel-room with no windows. i think to myself that if i can pretend this is a hotel room for however long i live here that i will get by without those shades of light i miss-- the orange of morning & the greyish blue of early dusk. at this hotel they made a fake window with curtains sewn to the walls & a row of lights to imitate day. she was unaware there was no window until the first night she flung open the curtains to find the lights. i imagine what it would be like to fling open all curtains to find the same row of bulbs instead of the street below or the skeleton of a tree by the house. i bring curtains into my room & i don't make just one window, i make as many as will fit on the walls-- small windows large windows windows in the shape of pentagons & small thin windows. i cut curtains to fold across each of these shapes & lights to hid beneath them. before bed i turn some lights on & some lights off. i pretend my windows are each open to a different place i've never been but want to go. this room is a hotel everywhere. this room is world of curtains. this room is where i will sleep & wake up somewhere different each day. forgetting this all i'll sometimes step up to a window as if to look out & i will remind myself that just like a hotel i'm not entirely anywhere.
07/14
a forest is eating a ferris wheel teenagers still try to climb up into the baskets to kiss-- peeling vines off one another's bodies-- watch nameless white flowers unfurl from their lover's ears & nostrils. the rusted seats wince as they rock-- neither considering how precarious this all might be. the forest thinks of the ferris wheel like a thicket of pretzel sticks-- the humans there like glinting crystals of salt. the forest is jealous of the humans though because they get to hold each other. the forest hold onto the ferris wheel & pretends it could be a knot of trees-- that maybe by clutching it the trees might ascend from their rust & replant themselves in the earth. the couple considers the clouds & whether or not they would support the weight of their bodies. they laugh & one reaches balancing on the ferris wheel, catching the edge of a cloud. the cloud is coarse as steel wool & so they let go & decide that the only place they can be in love in the ferris wheel & they will stay there for the rest of their lives. they regret that this isn't a carnival & that the ferris wheel has no light & there's no thick sweet funnel cake smell. the forest makes a carnival of itself-- light bulbs swelling from the necks of trees & flickering with brief electricity. the forest pretends these humans aren't in love with each other but rather are in love with the depths of the trees & the green all around them. the forest finds apples in the chests of trees & wild blue berries tangled in the thoughts of bushes-- dropping the fruit around the ferris wheel. the couple eats by feeding each bite to the other-- berry by berry. they are young & carnival music naturally comes from their warm skin. they kiss with tongue like neither of them have before. mouths full of candied bone-- calliope tongue. the forest tries to make itself a body, casting shadows in all directions, none of them becoming flesh. the forest churns the ferris wheel faster until the couple is dizzy, stumbles back onto the earth where they fall out of love instantly & leave going separate directions. slowing the ferris wheel down the forest sits with itself-- flicks the carnival lights on & off
07/13
someone's birthday cake flat white-icing playground-oceans all lined up in the open supermarket fridge like a map of square states. at the Weis bakery it's always someone's birthday. red icing balloon--red icing rose-- sweet thick yellow cake. billy & i hover over the fridge & take guesses about what people might write. i make up sad things because i like the idea of icing holding phrases like farewell & i hope you come back someday. the hopeful sibling, billy wants the cakes to say hello & guten tag & i'm so lucky to know you & let us thank god you are here on earth. i imagine a future where my brother & i only communicate by sending each other messages on cakes. right then i would hand him one that says i wish i saw you more. we open the lid of one of the sheet cakes & step one at a time onto its surface. a great wide sweet expanse of land. i say we can build a fort on the far corner near the burst of icing flowers. together we trek there & i tell him a story about how one birthday dad & i got up at 7am & no one else was up so we went to the store right then & got a cake for breakfast. billy asks was i there? & i can't remember. what is a family but an exchange of faint stories. what is a brother but someone to sleep beside on your birthday cakes. we pretend the icing flowers are a garden & we eat them in handfuls. billy says that he used to never want anything for his birthday because it seemed selfish. i do remember that-- years where we kept celebrations small & just with family. i ask him if he regrets it & he doesn't. i wish i was more like my brother. when we leave we put a sign on the fort that reads: gow brothers just in case it's there still when we return. i ask my brother if he remember my birthday & he doesn't. i know his, october 21st, though i'm not sure when i learned it-- there had to have been a moment when i committed it to memory. i tell him july 20th & he repeats it, saying i won't forget this we write that on the cake: i won't forget this. i won't forget this.
07/12
there's just a diving board in the middle of the yard. no pool, we didn't have enough for that so dad bought the diving board & told us to go have fun. solitary in the middle of the yard. diving board surrounded by grass & the hum of carpenter bee who eat the garage. my brothers & i rubbed globs of slick sun-screen on each others shoulders-- put on bathing suites. we took turns standing at the end of the board, shimming closer to the ledge. my brothers & i were all scared of jumping even on those afternoons we walked to the public pool. i had a fear i would jump & all the water would fly out of the pool-- i didn't used to be scared of that but boys started chanting that i shouldn't jump because i was too fat. i'd try to point my toes to slip in the water as quietly as possible. no matter the splash they would laugh. or, maybe worse, there would be a prehistoric shark waiting beneath the surface & he might snatch me from the air the instant i touched the chlorine stinging water. we were scared of our back-yard diving-board for different reasons. one brother believed the board was the ledge of a building. he cried & turned back, saying he liked his life & didn't want to die yet. on the ledge, another brother wept the he couldn't turn into a bird. he crouched down & dad had to come outside to get him off the diving board. i was the least scared because i'm the oldest. i mostly go stand on the diving board at night. i won't jump because if i do it will all turn to water-- everything: the garage full of scrap wood, the pile of red stones by the big tree, recycling cans & the big tall tan house we live in. i'm bold, so i bounce up & down on the diving board, feel the plastic wobbling. i consider all the water & wonder if i could hold my breath that long. i want to have fun with the diving board-- want to make a whole summer of it. each day i lead my brothers out to the yard first thing in the morning so dad can see us before he leaves for work, all of his sons standing on the end of a diving board. his brave sons who appreciate the diving board, who won't get eaten in the deep end of the public pool, and who love the dirt enough to not turn it all to water.
07/11
i won't be lonely now that i have a SHAM-WOW and i can spill anything. my last partner said that loving me was like dating an over-turned glass of water-- that i'm looking for someone to soak up all my stress & all my pain for me. i think of those info-mercials that came on between early morning cartoons how a man would shout & demonstrate all the ways the rag could absorb-- i imagine ringing like lovers out over the sink & the liquid coming out all whirly-rainbow like pools of gasoline in parking lots. i start off simple with glasses of water clear across the hardwood floor so that i can really witness the flow-- get to pretend i'm making new bodies of water in the kitchen of my house. maybe i do want someone to take in all my grief for me or maybe i just want a SHAM-WOW in my chest to fill up with those throat-sobs you can only conjure every once in awhile. i'm not having that bad a time. i'm not that big a mess-- i just happen to be not the most fun to be in love with. i just happen to keep lists of all the items i want to splash on the floor: orange juice, melted butter, blood. when i say blood i mean like blood from a package of meat even though i don't eat meat. i wipe down all the surfaces in the house. my favorite is the stainless steal fridge-- how when polished you can actually make out some semblance of your own reflection. i ring out the SHAM-WOW in the sink again & again & each time i have to think of that partner because when someone says something like that it never goes away. i wonder if they spill glasses of water without me. i go to the lake near my house where i grew up & i dip the SHAM-WOW in & out of the water until i mop the whole thing up. i can't stop i move onto oceans. i hope all the people i loved know it's me when they arrive at the beach & find it early empty-- just fish writhing in the sand. i spilled each ocean but especially the atlantic because it deserved to be spilled. i watch the info-comercial again & this time the host tries to convince me to give back my SHAM-WOW & i say NO because i am alone & i need someone or something to witness all of gorgeously water pools on the hardwood floor.
07/10
instead of catching on fire the house catches into hummingbirds a whole hoard of them making pink where there door knobs & hallways. i want to sleep until i get my feather back. i want to wake up flickering & orange. the humming birds drink nectar from all my pores & one perches in my mouth. someone calls the fire department who doesn't know how to deal with an emergency like this. all the men in their fire suites stand out in the front lawn & watch the humming birds-- they think to themselves i have actually never seen a humming bird in person. pulling the covers over my head, the covers are green green leaves. me, a droplet of dew making my way back towards the soil. i want to put the moon under my tongue. i put the moon under my tongue that's where it must have gone. the fire men have an invisible tea party on the lawn while they watch. they are so stupid. they should know that the humming birds demand attention or they get worse. i compliment each individual animal-- telling them i love their souls-- lying that i can peer under their plumage to see each glittering chamber. they pick up our fish tanks & carry them off into a cloud where they're probably going to eat the gold fish & teach the beta fish to fly. beta fish would make good tropical birds. some of the humming birds pry open my books & slip inside. they flatten themselves out to slices-- book marks. they want to be taken to a library. i'm crying & only feathers are coming out. i'm hungry but all there's left to eat is nectar from my own skin. i am a bush of dripping. i am glowing in a house all alone. the fire men play with matches. the fire men decide they don't take care of birds. they're off to plant kittens in clouds to rescue-- no more of this humming. so i hum, genuinely hum & the birds hum back. i don't remember what song it is i hum but they they it into their beaks, hungry for my sounds. i tell them i want to catch fire with them-- that i want to be a humming bird hovering over the debris of this bed room. the closet breaths. the end table is a wolf with a light bulb in its mouth. all the rest of my family sleep through the fire-- become ash in their beds. the fire men, gone i alone teach my humming birds to lay down in the soot.
07/09
we would fast on fridays in lent & i believed the food we didn't eat was going elsewhere-- that god, in all his justice & all his mathematics would harvest that uneaten food & bring it to starving children somewhere. i imagined him arriving with boxes of our frozen waffles & peanut butter potato roll sandwiches. the children would drink the nectar of fruit cups & plastic dishes of mandarin oranges just like me, getting the syrup down their arms. they would believe in purple & doves just like me & maybe they too kept saint cards on their windowsills. maybe they waited for lent like i waited for christmas. maybe he delivered the feasts by stacking our food on the doorstep or maybe he left them on the kitchen table where the families could easily reach them. i lined little baggies of candies from the market up on my bookshelf-- peach rings, spearmint leaves, & red licorice-- determined to let god take them. he would walk in at dusk with his white robes & tell me how wonderful a child i was for giving up all these treats. he'd go place sugar on the tongues of the starving children, one bite for each of them. the starving children would come to know me & travel from all directions to sit on the floor of my room. we would play tea party where i'd feed them tasty cakes from the pantry & i'd just drink invisible earl grey & eat invisible finger sandwiches. the starving children slept all in piles there so i told them to climb into bed with me & we were so warm all together. i told them i was sorry that lent didn't last all year & that i would try to eat less for them. they forgave me & in the morning when i woke up they were all gone-- the stories we make up to absolve ourselves of our earliest guilt. why was i born in a warm house on a farmhouse road where the only sound at night is that of a freight train in the distance? more bags of candy on the book shelf. a bowl of pennies for the collection at church-- priest in purple robes a dove eating licorice
07/08
god began sending items down to earth on parachutes, right before dusk when they sky is orange & murky with clouds. we felt silly, lining up with the neighbor children as we waited for the baskets to descend: a bowl of unripe blueberries, a few cans of sweet peas, a knot of roses, a whole lot of tiny espresso spoons. the kids got a basket of yellow butterscotch candies & we got one packed with zucchini noodles. there's a rumor that in the town over a little girl came upon a basket full of twenty-dollar-bills & another rumor say that even the more mundane baskets sometimes have gold pieces at the bottom. i think to myself that we are greedy with our miracles-- that it is wonderful that these objects have started falling & that i will be happy with whatever comes my way but i find myself there searching frantically in the strands of squash, hoping to find something more. i start to fantasize about what i would do with all those twenties & i walk myself up the street to the grocery story would i could have plastic bags full of coconut milk ice cream. i fold one up & put it under my brother's pillows. i give one to the hair dresser to shave my hair closer to the scalp-- telling her where it came from so she knows i'm not showing off. another basket comes down & it's piled with candy bracelets so i give it to the kids who put two or three on each arm. i can't understand yet what god is doing with us-- what he means when he sends down these trinkets on parachutes. all the pastors in town & religious leaders all over give thanks-- they come out in to the grass to pray & try to give answers. some say we're preparing for the end. i think god missed us or maybe she was bored-- craving the way small baskets from the sky spread manic joy over each town. i will save the baskets so that when it is over i can send something back up into the sky-- a loaf of banana bread or maybe a picture of all of us in my house with a note reading we are down here & we always want more.
